Chameleon

by Rick Stepp-Bolling

After twenty years he had begun to notice the changes. At first the subtle differences - receding hairline, extra paunch, yellowing teeth- went as unobserved as the maturation of the elm tree sapling he had planted in the backyard. The glances in mirrors and windows assured him that nothing significant, nothing that really mattered had changed, or worse, been lost. Then, before dinner one evening, he picked up the photo album on the living room table and began to thumb through snapshots. He didn't know why he had picked up the album; he didn't particularly like pictures and he rarely sat alone in the living room. Anita, his wife, kept the room immaculate - the white shag of five years barely showed its age, and the furniture looked new; even the painting an artist friend of hers had done ten years before seemed to be in a continual state of just drying. He hated this room. It had no life, and so he avoided even walking through it, though it meant a longer detour through the kitchen.

But here he sat. The red plastic covering of the album felt slippery in his lap; the weight of it pinned him to the couch. His eyes locked onto one photo, and hard as he tried, he couldn't divert his gaze from the memory in front of him. The picture showed two students in army fatigues with arms raised high in defiance. In the hand of each burned a small piece of paper, but it was the eyes of the two which startled him. They burned with the same fiery glow as the ignited draft cards. The student on the right, the one with the sparse beard and shoulder length hair he recognized as his roommate, Tim Downs, but the other, the one with determination, with defiance, with triumph in his countenance, he did not recognize.

A half an hour later, Anita came to look for him. She had called his name aloud for several minutes, but received no answer. Finally out of frustration and a hint of worry, she began to search. The living room was the last place she expected to find him, especially sitting in a darkened corner with the photo album in his lap.

"It's past dinner time."

His eyes remained lowered.

"Are you all right?"

For a minute he sat motionless; then his head came up and his hand slowly patted the picture of the two students. "Who is this?" he said at last.

Anita went to the lamp and switched on the light. She bowed slightly and then gave out a short laugh. "What are you doing with those old pictures. You never look at them."

"Who is this?" he asked again.

"That's Tim Downs, of course. God, he looks young, doesn't h e ? table.

"Who is that with him?" he said.

"There's no one with him. Just you and Tim."

At that he slammed the album closed and threw it across the

He had been working on the project for six months when the scandal hit the newspapers. "Defense plant indicted for misappropriations of federal funds." John Henson and Doug Capilla were the first casualties. Although he had known them as friends, their department and his own were unconnected, and, as a result, he weathered the shakedown. Still,
they had scraped his project, too costly in light of the cut backs, and ten people in his department were let go. It sobered him to the reality of the situation. Ten families would now be without an income for who knew how long. As head of project planning, he felt as responsible as anyone, but he knew there could be no amicable resolution. Cut backs in the defense industry were a part of the package. Everyone understood the risks, but damn, misappropriations of funds! That was just media talk for poor management. It sold papers, and it got people fired.

"Jean, get me Ron Burroway on the phone. I'll take it in my office." He knew there wasn't a chance in hell of resurrecting the project now, but he wanted assurances that later, maybe after a cooling off period, they would reconsider the importance, the value. .

The intercom buzzed. "Mr. Burroway is on the line, sir."

"Ron. . . listen, I've been rethinking the laser shield time line. If we eliminate the routine out of department tests and work directly with federal field maneuvers, I estimate a thirty percent savings." It wasn't all bullshit, but he doubted Ron would risk the integrity of the company in by-passing certain safety tests, even if they were unnecessary. Yet, he
had to try something. "That's right. Thirty percent. And that would free up personnel funding. We could get seven men back to work." That, of course, was his other concern. But if it came-down to crunch time, he didn't know if he could make the decision. The project or the men. "I'll send over my computations this afternoon. Please give it another look. This is important to me. Thanks, Ron." When he heard the buzz on the other end of the phone, it reminded him of something. Something to do with the photo of Tim. For a minute he almost brought it up, but then the memory or whatever it was buried itself in his subconsciousness. He looked at the phone. His knuckles stood out white and strained gripping the receiver. The buzzing continued. It was coming to him now. The buzzing. . . the buzzing brought him back. . .

"God, I hate flies," he said. The temperature continued to rise. "Why do you suppose flies like the heat?"

"If they didn't like heat, you probably wouldn't be bothered by them. Hell always has flies." Tim had already stripped down to his khaki shorts and t-shirt. The sweat rolled down his arms and gathered into small pools on the floor. "Nice of them to turn the air conditioner off."

The room contained no windows, just four concrete walls. They had thrown the files onto the floor so the room seemed carpeted with paper and trash. Five desks stood with their drawers opened and contents scattered about the room. A small sign above the only entrance to the room read: ARMY ROTC - Your future begins here. Piled before the door were two sturdy cabinets and a heavy wooden desk.

"I doubt if they really considered our comfort. Though they might have been thoughtful enough to have had a few windows." The other student also dressed in shorts wore a full beard and moustache with brown hair which swept across his shoulders. He lay propped against a gray filing cabinet.

"If they had windows, they might have be able to see the blossoms on that ornamental plum just outside this building."

"And if they saw that, they might see the blood of all those young men they send to war. God, who knows what would happen then. Spring can do strange things to your personal perspective."

The two young men laughed, but when the laughter died, there was an uneasiness in the room.

"Tim, what do you think they'll do to us?"

"Consequences? How can you think of consequences at a time like this?"
"Superior consciousness demands superior forethought."

"Don't give me any of that Nietzsche crap." Tim stretched and shook his head. Beads of sweat glistened on his hair, clung to his arms and legs. "Whatever hole they stick us in can't be any worse than this."

"When will they come for us?"

"Let's see. Today's Sunday which means everyone's praying they'll get a high draft number. Monday, early a.m. most likely."

"And it'll make a difference? I mean someone will listen. Someone will understand?" There was a note of real concern in his volce. For a minute Tim thought about the question. Then he dropped down and put his arm around him. "It doesn't matter, does it? What we do here is between the two of us. If we don't believe it, then it doesn't mean shit."

The flies continued to buzz in the oppressive heat.

"Do you think being a conscientious objector prohibits the killing of flies?'

"Man, you are filled with questions today. Just swat the bastards. They probably have relatives in Nam."

And then the phone rang. The two of them looked at each other in shock. Who would call the ROTC office on a dead Sunday when only the flies were buzzing? And the phone rang again.

On the seventh ring, Tim answered. "Yeah." Tim listened for several minutes, his eyes locked on some faraway object. " Yeah, no shit. Okay, thanks." Tim held the phone in his hand, the receiver resting against his mouth. He looked wild, like something had exploded inside and everything that was once bottled up burst open.

"Give, man. Who was it?"

"That was Jerry. Before he could leak the news to the press, he heard about Professor Whitson."

"Yeah, radical prof in anthro. Long hair, sympathetic. . ."

". . . he's dead."

"Dead?"

"Shot through the head."

"But who. . ."

"He and several students had formed a ring around the temporary bank. They didn't want anyone firebombing this one and blaming it on the students. Once the outsiders arrived, the confrontation began to heat up. Seems the opposition had other plans. But the police showed up and the crowds dissipated. Or at least they thought so. Some jerk threw a molotov onto the front steps. The students quickly put out the flames, but during the excitement someone fired a shot into the group, and Professor Whitson was killed instantly."

"Shit! "

"That's an understatement. If they try to connect us with that trigger happy idiot, we won't see nothing but bars for a good part of our natural lives."

"So?"

"So, we get the hell out of here!"

He eased his grip on the phone. His fingers felt cramped; his shirt was soaked with perspiration. It was the first time he had remembered. . . it was the first time he allowed himself to remember. Nothing had happened to Tim or to himself. The school paper had reported a break-in, but described the fire damage as minor and even gave grudging approval of the event. Still, it was the only time he had attempted to justify his actions with his conscience, in apparent failure. He believed in what he had done, but what had he done. What had he done since?

His fingers shook as he took the pen and reached for the first report on the in-pile. It simply required his signature he was relieved to discover. He waited until his breathing relaxed and then focused on the blank line before him. Several minutes passed and his fingers began to shake again. He continued to stare at the blank line. Finally, he left the document unsigned, and pushing himself back from his desk he whirled to face the wall. His eyes swept over the Matisse prints and woven hanging looking for something. . . something familiar, but everything appeared new and strange.

He reached inside his suit coat, but there was nothing. He must have left it in the car, but he couldn't remember putting the wallet in the glove compartment. Closing his eyes, he tried to remember the feel, the touch of the leather, whether it was smooth from constant handling or still imprinted with design. Each time he drew a blank. Nothing came to him,
not the contents, not the texture, nothing. The flashing light from the phone startled him. He hadn't noticed how dark it had become, and no other light inside the office had been turned on.

"Hello. Anita. . . yes, thank you, I had forgotten." A dinner engagement with Tim Downs. That would explain it. All the memories, all the confusion. Yes, that would explain it. "I'll be home soon. Bye." As he reached to hang up the phone, he saw the unsigned document. He stared at it until the light in the room eclipsed completely.

For several years following their graduation they had kept in touch through phone calls, Christmas cards, and summer retreats. Then the gatherings came less frequently and the friendship lapsed into an acquaintance. Tim had entered law school and eventually starred in an important firm near the capital. Either because of the close proximity or his own inner desires, he chose politics over law, and soon was being recruited by members from both parties.

His rise to political power both amazed and annoyed Anita, who saw Tim an opportunist wearing any mask that served his purposes. He - enjoyed watching his wife's anger for it meant that Tim's path, although successful, did not meet with her vision of what he could have become. Anita, as long time confidant of both men, withdrew from most meetings whenever either made the attempt to resurrect the past.

He had arrived home well after dark and was not surprised to see Tim's blue Mercedes already in the driveway. He expected Anita would entertain the future senator with cold politeness. He envisioned them chatting, drinks in hand, seated on the white, over stuffed sofa of the living room. The photo album would be resting, unopened, on the table
before them. The room would gradually change from the stark white of daytime to the warmer off-white of the evening, but the gulf between the two would remain as unbreachable as always. He wondered why the two even bothered to go through the formality of friendship when it seemed that it was long buried.

"Tim, good to see you again. Sorry I'm late. I'm sure Anita has taken care of all your needs?" He felt the concern seep into his voice, although he didn't understand why.

Tim flushed momentarily, then rose to meet his old friend, his new acquaintance. "She's been most gracious, most gracious."

He hated the first few moments of any renewals. It made him feel like reaching inside himself to find something solid, something substantial to anchor to. Then he felt like collapsing upon himself, an umbrella of skin and denials - a sea urchin with all the beauty, all that made itself unique, collapsing and closing in. If only there were the sea to return to. Then he could lose himself among all the other more colorful, more significant creatures of whoever's universe this
was.

They ate the dinner mechanically with little conversation, little life. He could see the tension building in Anita while Tim struggled on, trying to maintain a respectable conversation which all too often lapsed into sullen silence. At last, Tim turned to another topic. "I think we can find some funds to keep your project afloat."

That piqued his curiosity. "That's classified information, Tim. As far as everyone else in the world is concerned, I work as Martin's project planning manager."

Anita without hesitation added, "I'm to blame. Tim asked what you were working on and the conversation went in that direction." She paused. " I thought the project was dead. . . I didn't see any harm."

Swirling the wine in his glass, Tim smiled his deepest, most sincere smile. "Of course there's no harm. I already knew about the laser shields. My sub committee first sanctioned the research. Kepner from your own department was instrumental in giving us the necessary information." The cabernet settled back into the glass and Tim took a long slow drink. "As I said, I think we can find the money to keep you going. Are you interested."

"What do you think?"

"I think this is excellent wine."

He locked eyes with Tim. For a moment a surge of something electric swept through his body. "All right, I'll bite. What is it you want."

This time Tim put the glass down and leaned forward. "They want me for senator. They want me to start there and . .
."

"Let me guess. A presidential grooming. No, that would be too sudden. Vice-president? Yes, that would make more sense. Give you time to adjust, become known."

Tim smiled. " Very good. There's a seven year time line, but the prospects are excellent as long as the economy holds and we don't find ourselves in another Vietnam."

"I should think that would only enhance your appeal."

"My platform is a strong defense. I don't want to ever have to use it." Tim took his wine in hand again and tilted it in his direction. "We aren't on opposite sides as far as that's concerned."

"You mean because I work at Martin's? I research projects to save men's lives, not to destroy them."

Tim's smile seemed strained, but he managed to maintain it. "Then you won't mind additional monies. . . to save more
lives?"

He grew restless. The hard oak seat found the bones and dug in. He hated formal dinners like this. The dining room like the living room made the short hairs on the back of his neck stiffen. He shifted trying to ease the pain. "What do you want from me?"

"I want your friendship. How long have we known each other? How long have we stopped knowing each other? You and Anita are too important to me to have this relationship die."

He thought about that a minute. Of all the times for a reconciliation, Tim chose this time, this place. Why? Then it came to him. It came to him in the sound he had come to recognize- the sound of flies. The buzzing went through his head, filling his senses. Anita dropped her fork. "Are you all right?" The buzzing diminished. He shook his head looking around the room. Tim sat across from him. His face set. His emotions, whatever they might have been, could not be revealed in his countenance. "It is for a bond of silence. Or should I say a bribe?"
Tim set his glass awkwardly on the table. "It is for our friendship. What has been and, hopefully, what will be."

"Only four people know what happened that day. I assume you've talked with Jerry already." He admired Tim's control. He wondered if he would be as restrained. "Yes, you would want to take care of details. Now all that remains is to guarantee our silence. Am I getting warm, Tim?"

"Candidates are under a microscope. I will be no different. I've had a clean slate.

"Except for a minor indiscretion."

Tim locked his jaw, his hand coming down hard on the table. "If you remember, I wasn't alone. I don't think Martin's would take kindly to breaking and entering, destruction of government property, and conspiracy."

He had thought about the consequences of that Sunday all too often. It had been the one moment he looked back on with pride. Now it threatened to destroy his career. And what would that mean? What had he done with his life? What had his life done to him? God, he would give anything to start over. "You know, Tim, that was the one time we were
really close. Why do you suppose that was?"

"I've always loved you," Tim said. "It was you who pulled back. "

"We both know that's bullshit. You never took the time to know me. Not then, not now. You thought you knew me because you knew Anita. Anita the catalyst, Anita the touchstone. She is no longer a part of your world, just as she's no longer a part of mine." It surprised him that he could dig down inside himself and finally see what was there. . . what was truly there. Anita had stopped loving him long ago. He wondered why she bothered to stay. She had a career. She had herself. It was more than he had.

Anita stared at the two men who talked of her as though she were not there. Pushing herself away from the table, her wine glass teetered and fell, the wine gushing bright red across the white cloth to the very edge of the table before seeping in, staining it permanently. Without stopping, she vanished through the kitchen and into the inner recesses of the darkened house.

The two sat facing the spilled wine and empty chair. Tim said, "I'm sorry. . ."

"Leave." He heard the pleading tone in his own voice. "Please, just leave."

"Think about what I said. Your project. . . the lives of the others . "

He looked at Tim, the tears forming in his eyes against his will. "Do you know I can't even remember how to sign my own name? What do you want? The last act of any conscience was burning those records. Since then I have become. . . nothing." And the tears ran down his face like cleansing water mixing with the dark, wet stain.

"What about all the others? They depend on you."

"Let them depend on you." Rising from the table he could see the painting in the living room. He noticed how closely the painting matched the pattern of the spilled wine. "You become their Messiah. You become their conscience." He walked into the living room and over to the table. He stooped to pick up the photo album, then turned to Tim. "I need to find someone." Taking the album under his arm he walked to the entry way. The door closed with a quiet, firm click.